A Song of Snow and Blood
by rachel2205
Summary: Jon gets more than he bargained for beyond the Wall. Very loosely inspired by a prompt that asked for a vampire!Jon fic. Eventually Jon/Robb. Some violence. I welcome your feedback! :
1. Chapter 1

_'Here a man gets what he earns, when he earns it.'_

Jon remembered his uncle's words as he tried to raise Longclaw once more. Fire, he thought desperately, he needed fire, but the attack had come too fast and now he was trapped. Breath heaving in his chest, he hacked at the man in front of him again, trying to slow him down enough to let Jon retreat. But the thing that had been Ranger Piper bore down on him, and when at last Longclaw slid from his nerveless fingers as Piper's hand closed around his throat, Jon thought: _is this what you meant, Uncle? Getting what I deserve._

Then there was dark.

* * *

><p>They circled him in the woods, his sworn brothers, his friends, his fellow recruits of the Night's Watch, and Jon cursed them all.<p>

'I belong with my brother.'

'We're your brothers now,' said Grenn, and Jon thought: _not like Robb, never like Robb. My father said I have Stark blood which is why my heart beats so hard, knowing Robb's at war. Our blood._

But he lowered his sword all the same.

'Damn you,' he said helplessly. 'Damn you all.' And he went with his new brothers back to the Wall, where the Lord Commander reproved him and then told him to take up Longclaw again, because soon they were going beyond the Wall. Breathless with excited fear, Jon had managed to forget for a moment that Ned was dead.

_Forgive me, Father_, he said to himself afterward, returning to his room to strap on his sword, but that night it was Robb of whom he thought, his brother holding not a practice sword but a real blade as a Lannister army swept toward him, and Jon lay awake until dawn.

There was a corpse-blue sky above them the morning they rode out beyond the Wall, and before long Jon felt like a corpse himself, his face frozen, his fingers numb even inside his furlined gloves. He thought he'd got used to cold on the Wall, but there he had the protection of stone and the thin comfort of a lit grate at his post. Here when they were outside the trees there was a wind that cut through them like a knife, and riding through the woods meant the trees curled close enough together that the weak heat of the sun was blocked out.

Wildings attacked them on the third night, bodies painted black with mud moving like shadows through the trees. Jon was woken from pinched and restless sleep by the warning call of the sentry, and then the choked wet cry of someone dying. Only one of their own fell that night while five wildings died, but it seemed like a thin victory as they scratched a shallow grave into the hard earth.

After that there was nothing for days, but they were all on alert all the time, nerves stretched thin. Jon was finding it even harder to sleep now; if he was going to be killed he wanted it to be on his feet, holding his sword, not lying in his bedroll. And when he did at last drop off, he would dream of Othor, the way his hair had burst into flame, skin melting like wax. His fierce blue eyes wide in the ruin of his face.

On the eighth day, in the deadlight just before dawn, Jon killed a man. It was easier than he expected: one hard thrust and the Wildling went to his knees and died choking. The Old Bear said he had done well. Jon listened to his own breath whistle and felt less than he'd done when he'd killed Othor, even though Othor had already been dead. He wiped his sword and they settled the frightened horses, and went on with the day. Lying wrapped in his furs that night, he wondered if Robb had killed anyone yet. What it had felt like for him. If he had been afraid. Falling asleep, he dreamed of Robb on his knees in the snow, Longclaw buried in his stomach. Waking, he found his nails had bit deep enough to bruise his cold palms. He didn't know how to keep doing this. To feel divided like this between his blood brother and his new brothers, each of them more than kin to him. He'd sworn oaths to them both, although only to the men of the Night's Watch had he said the words aloud. But that Robb didn't know what Jon had promised didn't mean he shouldn't keep his word.

And so when the attack came on the ninth day, Jon was exhausted and distracted. In the thin light of the afternoon, already greying into evening a bare couple of hours after midday, they found a circle of bodies torn to pieces. Elister leaned over the body of a little girl, clucking quietly in disgust, and then made a choked sound as her hand wrapped round his throat. Her eyes were as blue as Othor's had been, and her grip as strong. It took two men to pull her off Elister, and another man to set a torch to her.

Amidst that the White Walker came silently, and he had killed two rangers before they even saw him in their midst. If Othor had been terrible, this thing was like nothing they had ever seen. Sleek as a cat in his movement, skin pale as snow, and his sword gleamed blue in the last rays of sunlight. The horses fled, and as corpses rose from the woods and streamed toward them the men of the Night's Watch fled too. They knew a lost cause when they saw it, and there was no honour in fighting a useless battle, not when they could withdraw and regroup.

Fire, Jon thought. He needed to light a fire somehow, and he cursed as he realised his tinderbox was in his saddlebag. He kept running, though it was hard through the snow, and soon he could hear nothing but his own breath. Eventually he let himself pause and leaned against a tree, spitting hard onto the ground to clear his throat. Jon heard soft footfalls, and looked up to see Piper, a gruff, wiry ranger.

'Piper,' he said with relief, and then realised that Piper's hands were stained with blood, and that his eyes were blue. With a despairing cry, Jon hefted his sword again. Othor had shown him that these things couldn't be killed with a blade. All Jon could hope was that he could disable him – it – and make his escape.

He fought hard. Jon thought, briefly, that Mormont would have been proud of him, and then he was flagging. Piper didn't seem to tire. Piper didn't seem to feel, or think, or do anything except attack, and at last Jon's fingers palsied and his sword slipped from his hand, the first time he'd dropped his blade in years, and Piper's hand was round his throat.

_Don't let me wake up like Piper_, he thought, tearing at his former brother's fingers as the edges of his vision went black. He should never have been here. If he was going to die it should be at Robb's side. _Is this what you meant, Uncle? Getting what I deserve._

* * *

><p>The light was blinding when Jon awoke, and he put his hand across his eyes.<p>

'It hurts,' he said. His voice sounded rough, and his throat hurt. 'It hurts.' He heard the sound of shutters closing, and the room dimmed mercifully. He opened his eyes and his vision swam. Where was he? Was he a prisoner? Jon tried to sit up, and the whole world seemed to shift sideways. Moving his head made his throat feel like it was on fire.

'Lie still,' said the familiar voice of Maester Aemon. The old man leaned over him, put a hand to his forehead. 'You're cold.'

'I feel hot,' said Jon. His skin was prickling. 'I'm back at the Wall? How?' His voice was barely a whisper, and when he cleared his throat he coughed wetly. Maester Aemon wiped his mouth, and when he set the cloth aside Jon saw it was sprayed with blood. What had happened to him? 'Am I sick?'

'You have been asleep for several days,' said the maester. 'You're lucky your brothers found you when they did – much longer in the snow and you would have frozen to death. They rode home fast, and you rode with them at first, but after the second day you fell into a fever and by the third day you could not ride. You remember none of this?'

'None,' said Jon. 'I'm thirsty.' The maester put a cup of water to his mouth, and Jon drank greedily. 'What happened to me?'

Although the maester was blind, Jon felt like his blank eyes were staring at him.

'Rest now,' he said. 'Questions later.'

Jon wanted to argue, but his throat ached too much to let him, and he sank back into the bed. He needed answers. Later.

It was dark when he woke again, and Jon felt refreshed, as if rising from a pleasant afternoon nap. His throat barely hurt at all, save for a slight throb at the side. He slid out of bed, suddenly restless, and padded barefoot across the stone floor to the window. When he pulled open the shutters he breathed in the night air and looked out at the stars. They seemed brighter than usual, more brilliant, and the cold air didn't hurt his lungs the way it had done before. It was refreshing, and Jon breathed in deeply, feeling his muscles ease out as if he were climbing into a hot bath.

As he looked out at the sky his stomach rumbled hard, and Jon realised he was famished. He wondered when was the last time he'd eaten. He found his way across the dark room easily, locating half a loaf of bread on a table. Famished, he bit into the loaf, tearing off a large mouthful of the dark heavy bread. It tasted like ashes in his mouth, and he spat it out. The kitchen, then, and Jon padded barefoot down the stairs and across the courtyard.

In the kitchen he found bread and biscuits and cheese, but all of them turned his stomach. He didn't know what he wanted. And then he looked in the cold store room, where packed in snow stood great slabs of meat. For a moment he felt so faint with hunger he thought he might fall, and he had to put his hand on the wall to steady himself.

Nothing had ever tasted quite as good as the rabbit's raw flesh. He dug his teeth into it, incisors tearing through the meat, and he heard himself make a low sound of satisfaction.

'Jon?'

He looked up, and Sam was standing there with a lantern in his hand. The light dazzled him, and Jon blinked hard.

'Jon, what are you doing?'

'I'm eating, what does it look like?' said Jon. He looked at Sam's pale and frightened face and set the rabbit down, looked at his bloodstained hands, at his feet bare on the ice cold stone floor. 'Oh gods, Sam.' He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and it came away gore-streaked, and for a moment Jon thought he might be sick. 'Oh gods.'

_What's wrong with me?_ he thought. _What have I become?_


	2. Chapter 2

'You should go back to bed, Jon,' said Sam, as Jon stared at his gorestreaked hands. He could taste blood between his teeth, and that wasn't the worst part. The worst was that he iliked/i it. 'Get back to bed. You're still sick. This is all a - a symptom.'

'Of _what_, Sam?'

'When my mother was pregnant with my little brother she wanted to eat coal,' Sam said helpfully.

'I'm not bloody pregnant, though, am I?' snapped Jon, and regretted it when he saw Sam's face.

'I just meant... Sometimes people crave the taste of strange things when they're sick. Come on,' he said, and reached out to put his hand on Jon's arm. 'You're frozen.'

'I don't feel cold,' said Jon. Sam's hand felt very hot against his skin, and Jon had to resist pushing it away.

'That's because you're sick,' Sam repeated. 'Come on, Jon. Please.'

It was the _please_ that made Jon nod and follow his friend back up to the infirmary room in Maester Aemon's chambers.

'You'll feel better after a good night's sleep,' said Sam hopefully, and Jon forced himself to smile back at his friend and climb into bed. But sleep didn't come, not for a long time. Jon felt wide awake, tasting iron and salt in his mouth, thinking of how easy it had been to rip that raw meat to pieces. It wasn't until the sun began to rise, thin watery light spilling over the windowsill, that he at last fell asleep.

The Old Bear shook him awake in the afternoon. Jon's whole body ached, deep throb in his muscles and pain in his jaw.

'I need you to get better,' the Lord Commander said. Jon's eyes ached, but even squinting he could see that Mormont looked exhausted. 'I've sent word to King's Landing about what happened beyond the Wall, but we've had no word back, and I doubt we'll get any.' He sniffed. 'King Joffrey – or perhaps I should say his mother – has no interest in what happens here. They're too concerned with their petty war.'

Jon pushed himself up on the pillows.

'Have you any word of what's happened? The Starks?' To Robb, he meant. Mormont snorted.

'They're calling your brother King in the North now.' Mormont told him something about the capture of Jaime Lannister, but Jon couldn't take it in. iThe King in the North./i He didn't know whether he felt proud or despairing. Robb. How could his brother be a king?

'Are you listening to me, Snow?'

Jon blinked.

'Sorry.' He rubbed his aching eyes. 'I'm – tired, since I got back.'

'We're all tired.' Mormont stood up. 'Your wounds are healed. There's no reason for you to keep lying here, not when we have fewer men than ever. I want you back at your post tomorrow.'

_What wound?_ Jon wondered, but Mormont was already leaving, and it was easier just to close his eyes and sleep.

* * *

><p>The days blurred together, and at the same time each moment was painful. Even his teeth ached with tiredness. He discovered a new talent, for falling asleep where he stood. Any moment he had alone, he would put his head against the wall and sleep, snatched moments of blissful blankness. At least the days were growing shorter, because he found that as soon as the sun set his tiredness eased. And with night came hunger. His stomach growled, but when he tried to eat the bread and pottage that made up much of the diet of the Night's Watch his gorge rose. Some vegetables he could stomach, but what he craved was meat. He ate the stews the kitchen served, but what he found himself thinking of was the rabbit he'd eaten. One night he even volunteered to feed the dogs so that he could lick the bloody dish clean.<p>

_I'm **wrong**,_ he thought, but didn't say to anyone. He thought of how he had burned Othor, the way his hair had burst into flames like dry kindling, and shuddered. He thought half the men of the Watch would burn him, brother or no brother, if they thought he'd changed into something like the wight Othor had become. _Wight_, a word he'd learned from Castle Black's library, poring over them on another night he couldn't sleep. He'd sat in the dark with an ancient tome on the table in front of him, and it was a long time before he realised his candle had gone out. He didn't seem to need it any more. There wasn't much in the books about the White Walkers, just stuff of old legends, but more than one mentioned that they could control the dead, make them live again after a fashion. Wight. _I'm not like Othor,_ Jon thought fiercely, but he thought of the cold bodies they'd found in the woods, thought of the chill in his own skin, and he wondered.

* * *

><p>They'd lost ten men on the expedition beyond the Wall, a heavy loss with the Watch as small as it now was. But the Old Bear was adamant that their retreat was temporary. Some of the brothers murmured amongst themselves that returning was a fool's errand, nothing better than suicide, but Jon was feverish with anticipation. The thought of coming face to face with something like that little girl or Piper or Othor made his stomach churn, but he felt like he needed to. He had to look a wight in its blue eyes and see if he felt any – <em>(kinship)<em> recognition.

A few days after Jon's return to Castle Black, Jarman Buckwell returned from a routine scouting trip in the woods beyond the Wall covered in blood. It turned out to be nothing sinister; a branch from a tree had snapped under the weight of new fallen snow and struck him on the head. The wound was not deep, but bled freely, and Jarman was soon bandaged and sleeping in Maester Aemon's quarters. It was nothing to worry about, but as night fell Jon found that he couldn't stop thinking of the ranger, the way his square-jawed face and shirtfront had been stained with blood. He told himself he was just concerned for his brother ranger's wellbeing, but that didn't really explain why he crept to the rooms beneath the rookery well after midnight. His breath misted inside at this time of night, but his bare feet felt no cold. Jon moved as silently as Ghost as he stepped up the stairs, and his feet made no sound on the rush-strewn floor as he crossed to Jarman's bedside. The room smelled of healing herbs, and beneath that the iron tang of blood. Jon felt very calm, the world shrinking and sharpening down to what was inside this room, silvery hues of the moonlit chamber, the deep shadows clotting in the corners... and the stained bandages around the sleeping ranger's temple, white-and-black in the darkness. Jon stared at them for a long time, listening to his heart beat, and realised that his mouth was watering. He was trembling, hand stretching out toward Jarman's head, when the ranger murmured and turned over. Jon fled as silently as he had come in, and in the kitchen he plunged his hand into a dish of entrails set aside to feed the dogs and sucked them dry, and only when he had finished did he realise that the whimpering sound of satisfaction he had heard came from his own throat.

The next day Lord Commander Mormont took in Jon's pale face and the dark smudges under his eyes.

'You're not fit to go beyond the Wall, Snow,' he said.

'I won't just stay here,' said Jon furiously. He'd lain awake for the rest of the night thinking of that moment by Jarman's bedside, saliva in his mouth. What he thought he might have done if Jarman hadn't stirred. He was too tired to mind his words. 'What use am I sitting behind these walls? I may as well have gone to my brother after all.'

'Ah,' said Mormont, mouth twitching. 'That's handy, as I'm sending you to him.'

Jon stared at the Lord Commander for a moment, wondering if he'd fallen asleep on his feet again and this was some feverish dream.

'I'm what?'

'We need men, Snow. Lots more men. You saw what happened beyond the Wall. But King's Landing hasn't even dignified our request with a reply. The South has turned its back on us. Maybe this King in the North will listen to us. Your father understood the value of the Night's Watch.'

'But... Why not send a raven?' Jon said. He was thinking of if it had been Robb lying wounded in Jarman's bed, what he might have done, and it made his heart pound hard enough to hurt. He couldn't go.

'Ravens are easy to ignore in wartime, if they're not shot down before they reach their destination,' Mormont said. 'Better a personal message.'

'But – my lord – shouldn't someone else go? I should be at your side,' Jon insisted. He could feel the fingertips of one hand curling into his palm, thinking of Robb bloodstained. He couldn't go near him. Not like this. Mormont gave him a curious look.

'I'd have thought you'd be glad to see him. Don't worry; if you think you might be tempted to desert, we'll send your brother a reminder of his obligation to exact justice,' said Mormont, and smiled. 'If he's calling himself a king now, he'd be obliged to have your head. So go and see him and then come home. With as many men as you can persuade him to give up.' Mormont crossed to the doorway. 'And Snow? Don't take no for an answer. Remember Piper.'

There wasn't much chance of ever forgetting Piper, Jon thought dismally once Mormont had left, and then went to see the quartermaster about supplies. He would ride for his brother's camp at once, because there was nothing else to be done, and he'd have to pray that he could keep rom showing whatever it was he'd become – for Robb's sake, if not his own.


	3. Chapter 3

Two nights south of the Wall Jon made his first kill of the journey. Three nights south and he made another. The first kill was a rabbit; the second was a man, but both died much the same way: twitching with their throats torn out.

Jon had realised, leaving Castle Black, that because of whatever had happened to him he would travel faster by night. So he rode for an hour or so, Ghost at his horse's heels, and then made camp for the day. He rolled into his sleeping sack though he hardly seemed to need it; Jon had the sense that if he fell asleep on a snowdrift it would do him no harm. But the idea of what that might mean about him made him shudder, and so he set out his bedroll and his bedding and slept, Ghost curled by his side. Like all his sleep lately it was as heavy as death, and when he awoke at twilight he felt better than he had since his encounter with Piper.

It was a clear night, and the stars seemed brilliantly bright to Jon, the waning moon more than enough light to see by. The black and white world he rode Dancer through was beautiful enough that it made his heart ache, his breath stop in his chest. He kept being distracted by the gleam of moonlight on snowfall, the glitter of ice on branches. It was like he was learning to see, and Jon breathed in the cold and for the first time in weeks forgot to be afraid.

Ghost padded away silently into the woods a few hours into their ride. Jon wasn't concerned; he knew the wolf needed to hunt. As he expected, Ghost came back a while later with a rabbit in his mouth. What he didn't expect was for Ghost to drop it in front of him expectantly. Jon heard the sound his stomach made, and without even thinking he dismounted and tore into the still-warm flesh, teeth slicing through fur. Afterward, Jon gagged, wanting to make himself sick, but his body disobeyed. He could taste the rabbit's flesh between his teeth, and it was good.

Jon rode without rest until dawn, and the next night he found his own rabbit.

He'd hunted, of course, as a boy at Winterfell, but it wasn't like this. He'd seen the rabbit out of the corner of his eye when he woke, and at once he was moving, slow and sleek and silent. He realised he could _smell_ it, a soft musky scent of fur and beneath it the tang of warm iron. And then he had pounced, there wasn't really a better word for it, fingers clasping the rabbit's back legs, and then he had sunk his teeth into its throat.

Jon didn't really remember much after that, not until he had thrown the remains of the rabbit to Ghost, who had licked the bloody bones and fur and then decided there wasn't much left to bother with. His heart pounded, and he felt sick – but it was with exhilaration as much as fear. _Yes_. With these two meals in him he felt stronger, sharper, eyesight keener, and that night passed as fast as the one before.

The woods he rode through the next day were very thick. He could have kept to the road, but it was icy, and in any case something in him shrunk from that bare highway, the chance of meeting people. So he let Dancer pick her way carefully through the trees, and his mind wandered. He could now be useful to Robb, he thought – and to his brothers in the Watch, he added hastily, because he had to get out of the habit of letting Robb be the first person of whom he thought. But he could be useful. So this – illness left him with a dragging tiredness during the day and a taste for raw meat. It had also given him sharper eyes and a keener nose, and he could play scout at night better than anyone. He'd have to go back to the Wall, of course, but first – first he might be of some use to his brother. His _King_, Jon thought, and felt himself shiver. The word made him ache in ways he didn't want to understand.

So engrossed in thought was he that Jon didn't hear the men approach until Ghost snarled, and then the outlaws were on him. His clothes were simple, and he carried only a small pack, but the men who attacked him were ragged and wild-eyed, cheeks gaunt with hunger, and a young man alone on a good horse was target enough. They knocked him off Dancer, and Jon fell heavily to the ground and cried out as his hip and elbow hit the hard earth. Jon heard a shriek of agony as Ghost tore into one of the men, a shriek that was soon cut off into a gurgling coughing and then silence, but there was no time to think about that as another bandit leaned over him with a knife. The blade was dull, Jon could see, but it would kill him well enough.

He seized the man's wrist and twisted. The cracking sound was satisfying, Jon registered somewhere inside himself, but he wasn't really thinking of that. He was staring at the man's screaming mouth, at the straining tendons of his neck, and he pushed back the man's head and bit.

It didn't take very long, really. Once Jon had his arms around the man to hold him still, it didn't take long at all.

* * *

><p>Was it possible, Jon thought shakily, secondsminuteshours later, to die from vomiting? He thought it might be as he retched yet again. When he'd realised what he'd done, he had run out of the clearing, fallen by a gnarled oak tree, and forced his fingers down his throat. This time the blood had come up easily enough, and seeing it spatter on the snow and, more than that, feeling the hungry tug of desire it had given him had been enough for Jon to vomit again, and again, and again.<p>

When at last he stopped, the snow was crimson, and he rolled onto his back panting like he had been running for miles. His whole body shook. Had he really done that? He crawled back into the clearing, where he found two twisted bodies. One bore Ghost's teeth marks at thigh and arm and throat. The other had a hand that splayed back at a painful angle, and a missing throat. Around the man Ghost had killed the snow was soaked with blood. Around the man Jon had killed there was only a spatter of red on the snow. Which made sense, given what Jon had done, and he giggled with hysterical terror until he was sick again.

It was a long time before he realised that Dancer was gone, and his supplies with her. Jon supposed the third outlaw had taken her during the fight, but he was too weary to care. Ghost pressed up against him as he lay on the snow, and Jon curled his fingers in the direwolf's fur and tried not to think. Thankfully dawn came, and with it a dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>Jon awoke in deep night with nothing but the clothes on his back and the knife at his belt. He had lost his sword, he realised, and for some reason that of everything made him cry, stupid painful childish tears. Ghost pressed against his side as he wept, and after he was done he felt better. He searched the bodies of the bandits for anything valuable, but found only a few mean coppers and a meagre bag of rations. He drank the beer and threw the bread aside, and wondered how he was supposed to continue his journey. On foot seemed impossible; by the time he got to Robb the war would be over. Well, there was nothing else for it, he thought, and started to walk.<p>

Ghost loped ahead of him, and Jon smiled.

'Maybe I should run with you,' he said, and the idea, silly as it was, amused him, and so he started jogging after the wolf… and then found himself matching the direwolf without doing more than breaking a light sweat. Jon felt like he was flying, feet barely touching the snow, and he laughed amazedly but not breathlessly, his head swimming. Ghost was silent as always, but his tongue lolled and his eyes turned up to Jon's face, and Jon could swear the wolf was laughing too.

Before they slept that night, Jon and Ghost brought down a deer, soft and shy and sweet. Oh, _sweet_, and they curled up together the way dogs did in the stables at Castle Black and slept the sleep of the sated.

That night, for the first time since Piper had attacked him, Jon dreamed. In his dream he chased Robb through the woods, both of them barefoot in the snow, and he brought his brother down with a snarl. In his dream Robb bucked up under him as he bit down, and Jon woke with a hard on and blood in his mouth. He had bitten his own tongue.

Rolling onto his back, Jon wondered how he could let himself even ithink/i of going to Robb. He should turn back now, tell everything to Mormont, and await the consequences.

Getting up, though, Jon found that he was once again running south.


	4. Chapter 4

Jon stood on the Kingsroad looking down toward Winterfell. There was no moon, but that didn't matter; Jon could see the great granite walls as clearly as he ever had in daylight. The winter town was beginning to fill up, more little houses with lights in their windows. They looked like they were huddled together for warmth. iWinter is coming/i, Jon thought, but for the first time that didn't seem like a curse. Whatever he was now, he was made for winter.

He wanted to go down to Winterfell, to spend the night inside its familiar walls, see Rickon and Old Nan and most of all Bran. He ached for it, but he knew he couldn't. After the bandit in the woods he didn't trust himself, not around people. He hoped by the time he got to Robb he'd have himself under control. And if he didn't, he would be in a camp full of armed men. They'd stop him. One way or another.

Jon put his hand on Ghost's white head and looked at Winterfell for another long moment, and then turned away and headed back into the trees along the road. For as long as he could, he'd keep running out of sight of men.

* * *

><p>If he could put aside knowing that he was a monster, the next weeks were perhaps the happiest of Jon's life. He had nothing to do but run and hunt, and with each night he seemed to be getting stronger, faster, eyesight keener. He could <em>smell<em> prey now, and spot even the slightest movement in the dark. He ran as fast and as quietly as Ghost, and when he ran he hardly thought, only felt, h_ungerdesirejoy_, the satisfaction of the new grace of his body, the easy strength of his muscles, the cold night air in his lungs and the smell of earth and fur and pine in his nostrils.

But he couldn't run like this forever. He needed to find Robb's army, and to do that he needed news. And so he started to pass through villages, to go into taverns and talk to people. The bright lamplight of these places after so many nights in the dark made his eyes ache, and though he'd never found it easy to talk to strangers, before they'd not shied away from him the way they seemed to do now. At taverns he'd find himself sitting alone at a table even when the rest of the place was crowded. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, Jon saw how pale he'd got, but it wasn't a pallor like sickness. People could tell he wasn't like them, he knew it. They might not realise it, but somewhere inside themselves they recognised a monster. But despite this, Jon learned easily enough that Robb was at Riverrun, and that the lords of the Riverlands were taking back their estates from the Lannisters.

Jon didn't like to admit it, but he was nervous going to Riverrun. Catelyn had never liked him, and this was her family's seat. It was bad enough he'd have to see her again, but her father? Her brother? Jon imagined men with eyes like Catelyn's, looking at him with contempt, and felt himself quail. He looked down the river to the great sandstone castle and set his jaw. He was here not as Jon Snow, but as a brother of the Night's Watch. He had a right to be here. Catelyn couldn't touch him.

It turned out to be a moot point, because Robb wasn't there. He'd taken a force to Darry, Jon learned, after Lord Lyman and all his men had been massacred by Gregor Clegane. Darry was a small house, its lands insignificant, but Jon knew his brother and he knew the cruelty of what the Mountain had done would disgust Robb, and that he would not rest until Riverlands men held the castle again.

It was half a day's ride to Darry, but the nights were long now, and it wasn't yet dawn before Jon found the camp. He could smell it before he could see it, scent of horseflesh and leather and metal. He could smell roasting meat, too, and he pretended that was what made his stomach rumble, not the scent of iron and salt underneath that: the smell of men's sweat and blood.

He was questioned pretty hard outside the camp, and then eventually taken through. The camp was quiet at this time of night, though Jon could hear the occasional murmur of conversation as they headed toward Robb's tent.

"I'll see if His Majesty's awake yet," said the guard. "He should be arming soon." The guard glanced at Ghost. "Leave – that out here." Jon could swear Ghost gave the guard a sarcastic look before the man went into the tent.

Jon could feel his pulse flickering in his throat. The tent wasn't particularly kingly, he thought. No gold bunting or the like, just the Stark colours flying above it. In the pre-dawn gloom everything was the Stark grey, Jon thought and smiled to himself a little, trying to make his pulse slow. And then the guard was stepping out. "He'll see you," he said, and Jon pushed past him and into the lamplit tent.

Robb was sitting at a table, hunched over a map, his face tense with concentration. Jon's first, foolish, thought was that Robb wasn't wearing a crown, and then his brother was speaking.

"I'm afraid I don't have much time this morning; we're about to – " And then Robb glanced up from his map, and his whole face changed, forehead smoothing out with shock. Jon felt his stomach lurch hard, but before he could say anything Robb was on his feet.

"Snow," he said, launching himself at Jon, and his hug was bone-crushingly hard. Robb's skin smelled of fur and leather, and Jon found it hard to breathe.

"Robb," Jon managed. "I mean. Your Grace."

Robb pulled back and punched Jon's arm.

"Don't go calling me that. Not in private, I mean," said Robb. "You probably should in front of other people," and then he ran a hand through his disordered hair and laughed. "I know, a king. I'm still not quite sure how that happened." Then his smile slipped away, his face taken on that sudden studied seriousness Jon knew so well. "What're you doing here, Snow? Mormont'll have your head. Or more to the point he'll ask ime/i to have it and I don't fancy that."

"I didn't desert!" said Jon, stung – more so because he ihad/i thought of deserting before Sam and his brothers had convinced him otherwise. "The Lord Commander sent me."

"He did?" Robb said, and then a young man came into the room carrying a plate of cold meat and bread.

"Your Grace," he said, glance darting toward Jon and then away. "Pardon me. I'll need to arm you soon."

"I'm sorry, Jon," said Robb. "We'll have to talk about this later. I have to eat my breakfast and then fight a war." He gave Jon a little smile Jon had never seen before. It was very – adult, he thought, weary and amused altogether. "Well, more of a skirmish," Robb added. "Nothing like – " He shook his head. "Never mind that. We'll talk more later."

"Can I come with you?" said Jon. "To battle, I mean."

"Jon," said Robb gently. "All the men here have seen a score of battles already, even the young ones. I don't want you getting hurt. Father would -" And then he stopped, face creasing, and for a moment he looked his age again.

"I forget sometimes too," said Jon quietly. "I've fought battles, Robb. Beyond the Wall. It's why I'm here." He reached out and put his fingers on Robb's sleeve. "Please."

Robb looked at him for a long moment.

"Alright," he said eventually. "Find the armourer, get a breastplate at least. Your horse must be tired if you've ridden all night -" Robb didn't point out he had run – "so see if the Master of Horse has any spare mounts. I'll put you on the left flank. Lord Roote is commanding it." Robb began to chew a piece of bread. "Well, go on, then," he said briskly. "We don't have all day." Jon flushed, feeling stupid, and started walking out of the tent.

"Snow?"

Jon looked back.

"Black _is _your colour," said Robb, grinning at him, and Jon laughed, feeling something inside him easing out.

"It's good to see you, Stark," he said, and stepped out.

Dawn had broken in the time Jon was in the tent. The light wasn't particularly strong, but Jon felt that crushing tiredness he'd grown used to in daylight. Well, he'd just have to bear it, he thought. They were going to battle. He couldn't let Robb down. So he was tired. He'd been tired at Castle Black and managed to do his duties. Setting his shoulders back, Jon began to walk through the camp, Ghost at his heels, looking for the two-headed horse that was the Roote coat of arms.

Everywhere around him the camp was bursting into activity, porridge boiled, horses saddled, swords sharpened. But eventually Jon had a mismatched set of armour, a placid piebald nag of a horse and a place in Roote's company. The left flank, Jon realised, was for this battle at least the place where the old men and young boys ended up, because clearly they weren't meant to do very much. Jon felt himself flush. Was this where Robb thought he belonged? The humiliation made him clench his jaw. He'd prove to Robb that he was better than this. He'd killed before, and he'd fought stranger things than anyone else here had faced. He'd do something brilliant and brave, and Robb would – Jon couldn't quite think beyond Robb smiling, a smile of mingled surprise and satisfaction, and then him clamping his arm around his brother's shoulders and squeezing them. Imagining it made Jon feel breathless, which was stupid. For the hundredth time he told himself he should stop caring so much what Robb thought, and for the hundredth time he ignored himself. I'm going to war for my brother, he thought, and a little warm shiver passed through him. And Father, he thought hastily, and the North. But it was Robb he thought of as he mounted his horse and followed Roote, loud press of men around him, smell of horseflesh and human skin making him hungry and sick at the same time.

The left flank fanned out onto a hillside above Castle Darry so Jon could see the army spread out below. It was only part of their forces, Jon knew, but he'd still never seen so many men in one place before, the green of the land hidden by a patchwork of horses and men and metal, browns and whites and silvers tight together. Banners streamed in the breeze below a grey sky. He heard the peal of a trumpet, and then rolling out across the whole army like a great wave the cry "The King in the North!" Jon cried out with them, feeling his heart pound. For Father. For the North. For Winterfell. For Robb –

The sun came out from behind a cloud, sudden brilliant light like a needle through his eye, and Jon fainted.


	5. Chapter 5

The sun was low in the sky when Jon opened his eyes. The blinding migraine of the morning was now a dull throb, and he sat up feeling both hungry and nauseated. And –

'The battle,' said Jon, scrabbling to his feet and waking Ghost in the process. It was very quiet here. Wherever _here_ was. He seemed to be in a tent, and he wasn't wearing his borrowed armour any more. He pushed the tent flap aside, and though the seeing the sun made the pulse in his temple throb he knew he wasn't going to faint again. The two-headed horse flew above the tent, so he knew it belonged to Lord Roote. It stood at the edge of the camp, which seemed to be deserted. What had happened? Had the simple skirmish turned into something deadly, had Robb misjudged his opponent – no, Robb wouldn't do that, maybe he'd been tricked, maybe – What if Robb was dead, oh gods, not Robb, better him than Robb, better –

Ghost had trotted deeper into the camp, and turned his head to look back at Jon. Jon followed his wolf and tried to slow his pounding heart, which got easier as the sun sank and his headache receded. As he got further in, he could hear voices and music, laughter and the trill of pipes. No one was in their tents at the edge of the camp because they were celebrating together. He found a fire where several men were gathered drinking ale, and from hovering at the edges of their conversation he could tell that, even making allowances for bravado, the win had been easy. Robb hadn't needed him at all.

Which was for the best, really, given he'd fainted. Jon felt sick again, but this time with shame. Fainting like a silly girl, and yes, he had his – disability, but he hadn't realised it had got to the point where he couldn't even be outside in sunlight. The other men must think he was a coward. Did Robb know had happened to him? Oh, gods. Please let Robb not know.

One of the men distracted him by shoving a cup of ale into his hand.

'No one should be dry mouthed tonight, not when His Grace is buying the beer,' he laughed, and so Jon drank what was in the cup, and when it was empty he had another. It seemed to ease out some of that horrible sick sense of shame, so he had a third. Much better. Maybe it wasn't so bad. Maybe he could explain to Robb. He and Robb could always talk to each other. He just had to go and find him. After he had another drink.

Jon settled himself down by the fire, and he noticed that people weren't shifting away from him the way they had in the villages. He could feel that his face was flushed from the alcohol, and he was moving a little more slowly. It seemed to make him more _(human_) normal. Now Ghost was taking up more attention, which is what Jon was used to. A white direwolf was bound to cause conversation, but everyone was in such a good mood tonight that the 'bloody hell's the wolf provoked were more admiring than scared. A few beers in a few of the men even dared to stroke him. Ghost, head resting on Jon's feet, put up with it silently, and Jon felt stupidly pleased.

After a few more drinks it seemed like a good time to see Robb, and so Jon got to his feet. He wobbled for a moment, but he found his balance quicker than he would have done a few months ago, and even if his head wasn't clear he was steady on his feet as he walked away.

He was almost at Robb's tent when he saw Theon standing by a fire with a group of men. Jon had almost managed to forget that Theon was here, and he tried to walk past without being noticed. Unfortunately, Ghost might move silently but he was still a large white wolf, and Theon spotted him straightaway.

'Lady Snow!' he said, giving Jon an ironic little bow. 'Lord Roote told us about your mishap, and how one of his men had to carry you off the battlefield. Did he administer smelling salts?'

Jon felt himself flush as the men around the fire laughed.

'Theon,' he said stiffly. 'I trust you're well. I was hoping to see my brother.'

'Snow,' smiled Theon, 'Robb's far too busy to see you. Unless you mean you've got some other bastard sibling around the camp somewhere. Hm, there are plenty of whores about – maybe you'll find a sister.'

Despite the drink, Jon moved fast, fingers curling around the fur collar of Theon's cloak. And – Theon smelled of Robb. Jon couldn't have described what Robb smelled like, not in words, but the scent of him lay over Theon's darker scent like moonlight on water. Jon's stomach twisted painfully, and Theon grinned.

'Brave now, aren't you? Shame you weren't when it counted,' he said, and Jon's vision blurred with fury as he knocked Theon to the ground. It took three men to pull him off.

'You _bit_ me,' said Theon, touching a hand to his cheekbone, where Jon could see blood beginning to well from neat tooth-shaped marks. Jon could taste salt in his mouth, and he could feel his chest rising and falling very fast.

'Let that be a lesson to you, then,' he said tightly, and turned on his heel and fled before he did something worse.

'You look like you could use a beer, boy,' said a man at the next campfire he found.

'Have you got anything stronger?' asked Jon. The man laughed.

'This, lad, is _strong_ beer. Not the pale piss His Grace, gods protect him, is giving out for free. Proper dark ale. Drink up.'

This ale was heavy enough that Jon felt almost like he had to chew it, but that was good. It took the taste of Theon's blood out of his mouth.

It was nearly midnight when Jon decided now would be an excellent time to find Robb and have a brotherly chat. Not that he felt very brotherly. He felt... 'Watch where you're going,' Jon muttered as he walked into someone. Even though he'd had a lot to drink, he still felt like Theon's blood was in his mouth. He hated Theon. Hated. He was a boor and an 'idiot, he's an idiot,' Jon said, and kicked a tent peg angrily. And Robb. Robb had. He didn't know what, he didn't want to know what, not with Theon, he wouldn't, not Robb, he didn't want to know, he did. He did.

The guard let him in with fewer questions this time. Like last night Robb was poring over papers, though at least tonight he had a tankard of ale at his elbow.

'Jon,' he said. 'I've been worried about you.' He stood up and came closer. He smelled faintly of sweat and dirt and dried blood. Not his blood. Jon didn't know how he knew it smelled different, but he did.

''M fine,' said Jon. 'I was just – tired. From travelling. Sorry.'

Robb shrugged, looking relieved.

'Theon brought news from Roote that you'd fainted; I was worried.'

Theon had told Robb. _Theon_ had told Robb, and Jon felt himself flush, blood rushing to his face fast enough that he felt dizzy.

'I wasn't scared,' Jon insisted.

'It's alright, Jon,' said Robb, very kindly. It made Jon's teeth grind together. 'You never know how you'll react to your first battle.'

Theon had told Robb that Jon had fainted, and Robb was being kind about it. Jon couldn't bear it.

'I suppose Theon was brilliant at his,' he said tightly, and Robb looked a bit surprised.

'You know Theon, he likes fighting –'

And Jon couldn't bear it any more.

'He smells like you,' he blurted out. 'You're all over him. Gods, Robb,' and he realised he was slurring a bit but he didn't care, 'if I'd known – if I'd known you liked – '

'Theon _smells_ like me?' said Robb, looking completely bewildered, and Jon grasped hold of the collar of his tunic.

'Don't pretend you don't know.' Robb. Jon thought his name with each pulse of his heart. Ro-bb, Ro-bb. 'Robb –' He pulled Robb in against him by the collar and crushed his mouth against Robb's, clash of teeth and lips and oh gods, he could hear the pounding of Robb's heart, he could smell his blood –

Jon let go of Robb and saw that he had cut his lip. He licked his own lips, and his knees almost buckled at the taste. iRobb/i.

'I'm sorry,' Jon said hoarsely, and stumbled blindly out of the tent, Ghost at his heels.


	6. Chapter 6

Jon stumbled blindly from Robb's tent, Ghost at his heels. The guard looked askance at him but Jon didn't care. He had to get away, and though he was drunk he could still move fast if he chose. He walked quickly through the camp, feeling the back of his eyes prickle.

'Ghost, stay,' said Jon firmly as he reached the edge of the tents. Ghost went everywhere with him like a second shadow, but right now Jon felt too dismayed to let himself have even the comfort of his direwolf. And then he broke into a swift loping run across the open fields.

No matter how fast he ran, Jon couldn't push away the thought of Robb's mouth against his, the way his fingers had felt curled into the fine wool of Robb's tunic, the smell of Robb's skin. The same smell he'd smelled on Theon. Jon hunted down a rabbit and tore it apart, ate gobs of flesh that steamed in the night air, but the taste of rabbit blood didn't get rid of the memory of that smear of blood on Robb's lip, how it had tasted in Jon's mouth.

After eating, Jon found his senses keener. The night sky was brilliant with stars, each one a sharp white light, and he could see each leaf on the trees at the edge of the fields. Jon's heart thrummed, muscles tense with unspent energy, and he ran into the woods, so lightfooted that the twigs and leaves barely crackled beneath him. Head spinning with alcohol, stomach twisting with angry and miserable desire, he put one hand against a tree trunk to brace himself and pushed the other inside his trousers. It didn't take long; the memory of the rasp of Robb's stubble and the heat of his lips was enough to make Jon twitch and moan as he worked his hand, and when he thought about that brief taste of salt and iron on his tongue he came gasping in his underclothes.

_I'm wrong all through_, thought Jon miserably, and he wished he could blame this on what had happened to him north of the Wall, but he couldn't, not really. He knew _this_ particular desire had been in him for a long time, and thinking of what it meant made him feel sick. Drunk and furious with himself, Jon curled up underneath a tree and tried to sleep, but instead he kept thinking about how shocked Robb had looked when he'd let go of him. He would hate him now – or worse, pity him. Jon had been victim of either indifference or pity from a lot of people, but never Robb. They'd been equals. And now Robb thought he was a coward and a deviant. Except there was Theon. What if Robb was shocked because he belonged to someone else?

With these miserable thoughts the night passed and day approached, and at last a heartsick Jon went to sleep in the iron light of dawn. He didn't awake until after the sun had set, and perhaps only then because Ghost's warm body was like a furnace beside him. The direwolf must have come to find him in the day; Jon curled his fingers into Ghost's fur and found he was glad.

Scrubbing himself clean in an icy stream by night wasn't especially fun, even for someone who was now so used to cold, but Jon couldn't go back to the camp with dried come on his belly. He rinsed his mouth in the water too, spitting again and again until he could taste only the clear cold stream, not blood, and he braced himself to go back to his brother.

Except that the camp was no longer there; where hundreds of tents had been pitched was now only churned up mud. Of course they'd left: the battle had been won. Jon cursed himself for not realising. It would have taken much of the morning to pack up the camp, particularly since most of the men would have had sore heads, but they still had several hours' head start. At least Jon knew he could run faster than a column of men could march, and the road back to Riverrun was well worn and easy to follow. He ran hard, hard enough that Ghost was at his heels rather than his side, and he arrived with his breath whistling and his lungs aching – but still hours from dawn.

Not that this helped him. The Tullys' men weren't interested in a bedraggled man of the Night's Watch, and they wouldn't let him near Robb. The King was in council and then for his bed, they insisted, though they did at least have the grace to offer him a bed for the night. Jon Snow might not impress them, but they still had some grudging respect for his office. Turning down their offer of a part of what was left of supper – now Jon couldn't even stomach cooked meat, let alone bread or vegetables – he went to the tiny chamber that had been given to him. Jon paced the twelve foot length of the room a hundred times, thinking of what to do. He needed to see Robb. He still didn't know what he was going to say, but he needed to see him. If he didn't do it now, he never would, and he'd prove himself the coward Theon had told Robb he was. Robb was somewhere on the next storey of the castle, listening or talking or sleeping (_please, nothing else_, he prayed, thinking of Theon, _please, please_) and Jon couldn't get to him.

Not _inside_ the castle, at any rate. _You're not Bran_, he told himself. _And look at what happened to him, anyway_. But his heart thumped fever-fast, and kicking off his boots he crept swiftly from his room, leaving Ghost lying lazily on his bed.

It was simple enough to climb the stairs. Reaching the next floor, the long hallway was dark, but Jon could see the flicker of candlelight at one end, and the sight of a guard leaning lazily against a wall, cleaning under his nails with a pocket knife. He clearly wasn't expecting any trouble. Jon knew now where Robb's chamber was, and quiet as the grave he crossed the corridor and climbed out of the window.

Standing on the ledge he had a brief moment of absolute terror, but he iknew/i it wasn't rational. He could reach Robb. It wasn't a hope; it was certainty. He was made for this now, just as he was made to hunt and to run, and so he turned so he was facing the castle, and then he began to cross the great sandstone wall, fingertips and toes clinging to the bricks. It was slow and agonising, inch by careful inch, and Jon was painfully aware of the night slipping away. His hands and feet were sweating, and there was one horrible moment where his left foot slipped – only a few inches, but almost enough to send him hurtling hundreds of feet into the river below.

But he didn't fall, and he came to the window he thought was Robb's. There was a thick curtain in front of the window, but standing on the ledge Jon leaned in – thank the gods these windows weren't glazed – and could smell him, he was sure of it, and if he listened hard he thought he could hear quiet breathing. And so he moved through the window quietly, feet hitting the floor silently –

And someone pulled him through the curtain and knocked him to the floor. Jon's ears rang as his head collided with stone, and he struggled to focus his eyes and see –

'Jon,' said Robb, kneeling on his chest, dagger in his hand, his face pale with shock. 'What in the name of the unnamed gods is going on?'

Jon, staring up at his brother and king, couldn't think how on earth he was meant to begin.


	7. Chapter 7

I AM SO SORRY, GUYS, THAT THIS HAS TAKEN SO LONG. I have a new and exciting job that has eaten up my life for the past few weeks. But I have a bit of free time over Christmas so I hope I can catch up! If you're still reading I'd love to hear from you! :) This is a bit of a spit-and-sawdust update to help move things along. More exciting plot and Robb/Jon stuff to come.

* * *

><p>Robb pulled Jon through his bedroom window, knocking him to the floor, and Jon's ears rang as his head hit stone.<p>

'Jon,' said Robb, kneeling on his chest, dagger in his hand, his face pale with shock. 'What in the name of the unnamed gods is going on?'

Jon couldn't think what to tell him. So he told him everything in a handful of words.

'I think – I'm not a man anymore, Robb. I think – something in me's gone wrong.'

His breath made a hitching sound in his chest, and the corner of his mouth trembled. Robb looked down at him, face unreadable, and then leaned in and kissed him, mouth hard and hot.

It only lasted a second, and Jon was too shocked to react, lips only just beginning to part as he felt warm fur brush the side of his face. Robb pulled his head back as Grey Wind sniffed curiously at Jon, and then, evidently deciding he was no threat, padded back to the warm stones by the fireplace and curled up. Robb stood and offered Jon his hand; bewildered he took it, pulling himself to his feet. Jon's ears were still ringing, and the blood which had rushed to his head had now gone to his cock. He wondered if Robb could see his erection, and the idea was both horribly embarrassing and arousing altogether. He cleared his throat, trying desperately to find something to say, and then Robb was speaking.

'Where did you climb from?' asked Robb, all business, walking over to the window.

'I climbed from the other end of the hallway,' Jon said, and went over to the window to show him. Leaning out, Robb looked at the expanse of smooth stone between his window and the other one and whistled softly.

'How's that possible?'

'I don't know,' said Jon miserably. 'I can do a lot of things now I couldn't before.'

'Before what?' said Robb, and there was a shout of 'Your Majesty' from outside and the door burst open, two armed guards crossing the room with swords drawn. Jon knew Robb wouldn't let them hurt him, but all the same he found himself squaring up to them, body braced for attack, and he made a low snarling noise in his throat that didn't sound anywhere near human. Grey Wind barked loudly once

'Stand down,' said Robb, with that same calm authority Jon had noticed in him before. But it was habit now, not something he had to put on. 'This is my brother Jon.'

'Sorry, Your Grace. Just we knew you'd gone to bed alone, and then we heard voices -' The guard looked confused.

'But as you can see, all's well,' said Robb briskly. 'Thank you for your prompt response. Dismissed.'

The two guards hesitated, both looking curiously at Jon, and then murmured a 'yes, sire' before leaving. Jon let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. His muscles thrummed with unspent tension, but he could feel the approaching dawn even more keenly now, like an ache in his skull and spine.

'So,' he said awkwardly, and then didn't know how to continue. He and Robb looked at each other for a minute, and then Robb punched him hard on the arm. 'Ow!' Jon rubbing his arm. 'What was that for?'

'What was that for?' Robb repeated. 'You bastard, you fled into the night and no one knew where you'd gone, and then you climb through my window a day later and scare the shit out of me and you ask what I'm punching you for? Should be glad it's not your face.'

'I just -' Jon wasn't sure how to continue that. _I was embarrassed that I kissed you, and then I had to sleep because I can't stay awake in the daytime any more, and now I'm wondering if I just hallucinated you kissing me because it doesn't make any sense._ 'I'm sorry,' he mumbled. 'Things've been... strange. For a while now.'

'So tell me about it,' said Robb, sitting on the bed. 'I'm clearly not going back to sleep tonight, and it's nearly morning anyway. Tell me.'

And so Jon did, haltingly and carefully. He told him about what had happened beyond the Wall. How tired he'd been afterwards. How he could see better in the dark, how daylight had started inducing headaches and now made him pass out. He told him that he was stronger, that he could run for hours. He left out his taste for raw meat, the man he'd torn apart in the woods. He didn't tell Robb that it was as much the taste of his blood in his mouth as the memory of the feel of Robb's lips that had brought him to ashamed, shuddering climax in the woods two nights ago after he'd fled from Robb's tent.

They were quiet for a long time after he finished talking. His head was beginning to ache as the light in the room began to pale into grey. Robb's silence was making him nervous.

'I don't suppose,' Robb said eventually, 'there's any chance you've just lost your wits?' He rubbed the space between his eyes, and for the first time that night he looked his age.

'I don't think so,' said Jon glumly. 'Though I don't suppose I'd know. The mad don't always know they're mad, do they? But it all did happen, Robb. I swear.'

Robb ran his hand through his hair.

'I believe you. And by the looks of things, after this war is over we may have to fight another one.' In the pre-dawn light he looked very young and very tired, and Jon shuffled closer to him on the bed and gingerly put an arm around him. He felt Robb sag a bit into his embrace, and it made his throat tight, back of his eyes prickle. It wasn't often he felt like he could look after Robb, and this was such a small thing. He wanted to do more.

'You'd think once you'd become king, things'd be easier,' said Robb. 'People do what you say, you get a nice crown. But everything's harder.' He twisted his fingers into his auburn hair, tugged at it in frustration. 'We've been doing well with the battles we've fought so far. But there's so far still to go.'

'I know,' said Jon quietly. His head was hurting so much now, but he didn't want to move. Robb turned his head and looked at him.

'You look ill,' he said.

'Just tired,' said Jon, trying for a smile. 'I get like this now, when it's day. It was stupid of me to try to fight in the battle. Made a right fool of myself.'

'Never mind that,' said Robb. 'Lie down for a bit.'

Jon wanted to argue, but the bed was too inviting. He lay down, and closing his eyes he at once felt some relief.

'You're not going, are you?' he said, hating himself for the question once it was said. He always sounded so weak compared to Robb. He felt a warm hand brush back his hair.

'No; it's early yet. I can stay here awhile.'

Jon fell asleep listening to the sound of Robb breathing, smelling the scent of him on the bedclothes, and when he woke many hours later he felt better than he had done in a long time. During the day he had dreamed, a stranger and clearer dream than he had ever had before. He drank water from a pitcher by Robb's bed, long steady gulps until it was drained, and then he went in search of his king.

He found him at council, and this time the guards didn't stop him. The Tullys looked surprised to see him, the men of the North uninterested. None of that mattered. He looked only at Robb.

'Your Grace,' he said. 'I think I might be of some service to you. If you'll pledge me men for the Night's Watch, I think I can help you win this war.'


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's note: thanks to those of you who've kept reading this and reviewing it, and sorry for the very very long break between updates!_

There were half-a-dozen pairs of eyes gazing at Jon, but he looked only at his king. The moon was very bright, bleaching Robb's face into bone-shade and shadow. This far up the wind was strong, and it whipped his hair across his face. Jon glanced over the edge of the watchtower, far down to the moon-gleamed surface of the Tumblestone, and breathed in hard.

"Jon," said Robb, voice calm but urgent, "if you're not sure, don't do this. I'd not have you dead on the basis of a poor hunch."

Jon straightened up.

"It's not a hunch," he said. He shrugged off his cloak and his shoes and climbed up onto the parapet.

"Jon," said Robb, and his voice was rougher now, "are you -"

But Jon had already jumped.

In his dream, Jon had dived a hundred feet as clean and swift as an arrow from a longbow, and he had breathed water like it was air. In his dream there was no pain.

When he hit the river it felt like dying, the great cold hard shock of it, and his screaming mouth had sucked in ice water that made his lungs burn in agony that went on and on.

But he did not die, and through all this agony he kept his eyes open, eyes that could see in the black water of the Tumblestone.

It still took him a long time to surface again; he had to push back against the currents that threatened to drag him downstream, and every part of his body hurt. But at last he broke the surface and gasped in clean cold air with gratitude, stomach roiling with river water. The top of the watchtower seemed very, very far away, and Jon had to force himself to climb up the walls, wet fingers and toes finding only the smallest of purchase on the smooth walls of Riverrun. Every dragging moment of the climb was like – Jon could only compare it to the dull hot throb of toothache, but through all his bones – but at last he managed it, climbing over the parapet and flopping onto the stone floor to where Robb stood with his most trusted councillors. He ignored the shocked murmurings of the other men, looking only at Robb, but he couldn't read his expression; his half-brother's face was too still, his eyes blank. Staggering to his feet, Jon leaned over the wall and unceremoniously vomited up a long pale gush of water, and in a moment he felt Robb's hand on his back, then his cheek.

"You're freezing," said Robb, and Jon didn't think that really had anything to do with his midnight swim, but he said nothing when the king put his own cloak around his shoulders. Jon didn't need the warmth of it, but it smelled of Robb, and that made him feel safe. He leaned against Robb, who wrapped his arm around him, and Ser Patrek Mallister leaped forward, expression a mixture of fury and concern.

"You shouldn't touch him, Your Grace," he said. "This is witchcraft. No man could do what he has done."

There was a fierce murmur of agreement from the men behind Patrek, and Jon held his breath. Robb was silent for a long moment. Jon could feel the breeze in his hair, making water droplets run down the back of his neck, but he did not shiver.

"Perhaps," said Robb at last. "But Stannis Baratheon has a witch of his own. Men say she killed Renly Baratheon, and now Stannis has the allegiance of the Storm Lords." He gave Patrek a long look, until the young knight dropped his gaze. "Maybe it's time I had some magic of my own. Come, Jon. You should get some rest."

Robb strode across the tower's roof, bringing Jon with him, and he took Jon down to a chamber – not the small room Jon had been given when he arrived, but something larger and grander, full of draughty windows and tapestries.

"Bring fresh clothes and hot wine for my brother," he said to a servant, and when the tunic and hose and steaming wine were delivered he looked at Jon for another long moment, and then crossed the room and bolted the door. Returning, he put his fingers under Jon's chin, tipping his face up so he could look at him. Jon still couldn't read his expression, Robb whose thoughts he'd always known as a child, whose dreams and worries were written on his face as clearly as ink on parchment, and now although the room was warm he did shiver.

"But you're not, are you?" said Robb after a little while, in the quiet tones of a man who has made up his mind.

"Not what?"

"My brother," said Robb. "Not any more."

Jon would rather have the pain of cold water in his lungs than this, and he jerked away from Robb's hand, feeling a sour mixture of anger and shame.

"I thought you said last night that you'd not hold this against me, what I've become," he said, turning away, and Robb caught his shoulder and pulled him back.

"I don't, you idiot," he said, and Jon couldn't understand why Robb sounded frustrated. "But if you're not my brother –"

And then Robb kissed him, and Jon couldn't think about anything else any more. In the tent a few nights ago it had been Jon who was fierce, but tonight it was Robb, Robb whose mouth forced Jon's open, and when Robb's tongue touched his Jon made a humiliating little whining sound, but he couldn't help himself. It didn't seem to put off Robb, who pushed him hard against the stone wall of the chamber and thrust Jon's legs apart with his knee, and then his _hand_ – Jon's head rolled back and struck the stone, and his fingers dug into Robb's shoulder as Robb pulled down Jon's breeches and worked his cock with a rough hot hand. Jon didn't know how this was happening, and he wanted to touch Robb but all he could do was thrust helplessly into his hand, whining noise getting louder until Robb shoved the fingers of his other hand into Jon's mouth and Jon came with strangled cry, knees buckling.

Robb drew back, and his face was flushed, nostrils flared.

"So that still works like a man's does," he said, voice hoarse.

"Robb," said Jon, but he was too exhausted from climbing and shock and climax to catch hold of any of his thoughts and put them into words.

"I trust you," said Robb. "Not just because of what you did tonight. You really think your plan can work?"

"Yes," said Jon, thinking of his dream, how he had plunged into a cold ocean and then climbed a wall that was meant to be impregnable; but it had not been designed with creatures like him in mind. "We can take Casterly Rock."


End file.
